


Can You Die Carelessly

by whenshewrites



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt Deserves Nice Things, Geralt is used to it, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geraskier, He also doesn't take shit, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier is a Nice Thing, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Slight Death Threats, and let them be happy, dammit, let the bard be a badass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24177760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenshewrites/pseuds/whenshewrites
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Geralt doesn't always save Jaskier. Sometimes, Jaskier saves him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 195





	Can You Die Carelessly

The thing is, most people thought Geralt was the one that always saved Jaskier. They saw him enter the tavern and murmured things like _‘that’s the witcher and his bard’_ or _‘that’s the one that always follows the White Wolf of Rivia around’._ On some occasions, those things were even worse. Jaskier thought it was rather amusing the number of times he’d been called Geralt’s bitch.

Geralt disagreed. But Geralt got mad when someone made even the smallest insult about Jaskier’s singing, because apparently only big bad witchers were allowed to do that.

In fairness, Geralt had saved Jaskier’s life plenty of times. Enough that Jaskier could smile and laugh when someone said certain things to his face. 

But the truth is, Jaskier wasn’t always the damsel in distress. Not always.

He’d been separated from Geralt for about three weeks now. It was a little thing; Jaskier traveled to Oxenfurt to give a lecture and Geralt was supposed to meet him in the small town over afterward. One that didn’t always have the best reaction to witchers, but they were both used to that.

Except when Jaskier arrived, there was no witcher to be seen. It wouldn’t be the first time; he found the small inn, ordered himself a drink, and sat down to wait. Geralt had been late before.

But then nightfall came. And no witcher arrived.

“Excuse me,” Jaskier said, dropping his elbows on the counter and leaning forward. “Have you seen a witcher wandering around these parts? Preferably one about three times my size, with a perpetually constipated expression, and eyes that look into your very soul?”

The barkeep stared at him. Jaskier chuckled nervously.

“He’s a friend.”

“Haven’t seen no witcher,” the barkeep said, shrugging. “Don’t want to see no witcher. He’d be lucky to get past the main gate, though. Someone would stop him.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “Expand on that?”

“What do you care?” The man asked. “Gotta soft spot for golden-eyed beasts and their cocks?”

“Well, that’s a little rude—”

“Shove off,” the barkeep said, turning his back to Jaskier. “We don’t serve his or your kind here.”

“My kind?” Jaskier said, indignant this time. The barkeep ignored him, but lifted a hand in the air, and Jaskier squawked as a hand caught him by the collar and lifted him off the stool. A bald-headed man carried him toward the door and ignored Jaskier’s sounds of protests as he threw him to the dirt outside the tavern. 

“Off with you. Before I use a different method.”

“Now, now,” Jaskier said, backing away. “There’s no need for that.”

The man grunted. Jaskier rolled his eyes and turned away.

“Golden-eyed beasts,” he muttered. “Wait till Geralt hears that one. It might be new.”

It was getting late and Jaskier didn’t know where else he’d find somewhere to sleep. He could sneak into the stables, perhaps, but that didn’t sound tempting. There was always a chance he could offer someone a coin for a spot in front of their hearth, except he was running low on coin.

“Gods, Geralt,” Jaskier said, starting down the road. “Where the hell are you?”

Sadly, the darkness didn’t offer an answer.

* * *

Jaskier woke up the next morning to the sound of chaos. 

He’d ended up sleeping in the stables after all, and straw stuck to the side of his face as he lifted his head, blinking blearily a few times. There was something going on outside. The sound of cheers, roars, and shouts echoed through the air.

Jaskier groaned. He didn’t know what time it was, but he knew it was far too early. 

Still, he pushed himself up. The nearest horse gave him a judgemental look and Jaskier glared at it, rubbing at his face before stumbling out of the stall. Straw wasn’t nearly as comfortable as pillows. He was going to tear Geralt a new one when the witcher decided to finally show up.

Jaskier got his wish a little too soon. And not under the circumstances he’d been hoping for.

Coming out of the stable, he blinked against the daylight. There was a crowd of people gathered on the street and they were shouting far too loud for Jaskier’s tired mind. Shaking his head, he caught the arm of the nearest passing woman.

“Excuse me, but what the hell is going on?”

“It’s the Butcher of Blaviken,” she said, eyes bright with excitement. “They caught him last night.”

Jaskier’s blood went cold. “What?”

But the woman only yanked away and followed the crowd down the street. Toward the town square, Jaskier realized, starting after them. He shoved past people cheering and ignored the curses and glares he got, worming through the crowd. He could feel his heart in his throat. Surely, Jaskier thought, the woman was wrong.

But then he shoved to the front of the gathering. And Jaskier stuttered to a stop. 

In the centre of the square was a small platform. In the middle of the platform was a wooden pole and a noose. There was a man standing in front of the crowd, dressed in purple silks and shining boots. Two two stocky men stood behind him, holding a sagging figure between them. Jaskier’s heart stopped.

The prisoner’s hands were chained together and his hair hung in front of his face, but Jaskier would’ve recognized his witcher anywhere. Blood stained his white shirt. There were bruises across his face and a couple open gashes where Jaskier could see skin.

And for some reason, Geralt wasn’t fighting back. In fact, he barely looked conscious. Jaskier didn’t even think before shoving forward and scrambling toward the platform.

Startled sounds came from the crowd. Jaskier rushed toward Geralt only to be cut off as one of the men drew a sword, pointing it between him and the witcher. Geralt stirred a little, but didn’t look up. Jaskier rounded on the silk-wearing man. “Let him go!”

“What the hell is this?”

“What the hell is _this?”_ Jaskier asked, his voice shaking in anger. “What has this man done to stand trial? What the hell have you done to him?”

“He’s a witcher,” the man said, eyes flashing. “Who are you?”

“That’s the witcher’s bitch,” the man with the sword snarled. “The bard.”

Murmurs rolled through the onlooking crowd. Jaskier raised himself up, hoping he looked more threatening than he felt. He doubted it. “I asked a question. What has this man done to stand trial?”

“I could list his crimes,” the silk-wearing man sneered. “But it’d take too long.”

“Let him go,” Jaskier said. “Or so help me.”

“Oh, does the bard have bite? Perhaps we should hang you next.”

Jaskier looked at Geralt in panic. The witcher had to be drugged; eyes lidded, face pale, and breaths coming out in short rasps. Jaskier wasn’t a warrior. He wasn’t going to fight their way out of this. Still, he didn’t back down, turning back toward the silk-wearing man. “Let him go or I swear this entire town won’t live to see another winter.”

The man narrowed his eyes. Jaskier lifted his jaw.

“Do you really think the Butcher of Blaviken travels with a simple bard? Do you really think the White Wolf of Rivia would travel alongside a _musician?_ How do you think he got the nickname, exactly? Have you ever seen a witcher turn into a wolf? Do you know how he does it?”

The man’s breaths stuttered. Jaskier smirked threateningly.

“I’ve traveled alongside the Butcher for decades. I’ve heard the rumors and the names. But have you ever come face to face with a god? Do you know the things I could do to this town with my voice?”

“You’re bluffing,” the man said. But he sounded uncertain. Jaskier tilted his head.

“So a bard travels with a witcher and manages to survive what, thirty years? A hundred? But yes,” Jaskier said. “I’m lying. You touch a hair on his head and this entire town will be wiped from the land forever. Your children, your wives, all the things you hold dear will face the darkest years of their lives. No matter where you go, no matter how far you run. You will face my wrath.”

The man with the sword retreated an inch back. Jaskier didn’t realize how dark his voice had turned, nor how Geralt was slowly lifting his head, tired golden eyes blinking at him in confusion, until Jaskier realized how silent the air had become. He laughed coldly.

“One song will drive you mad. One pluck from the strings of my lute will curse this town forever. Is that something you really want to risk?”

The man in silks glanced over his shoulder. No one in the crowd made a sound. Jaskier offered a sharp, crazed sneer.

“No? Then release the witcher.”

The man still hesitated. Jaskier would be lying if he said he didn’t nearly have a heart-attack, but then the man jerked his head toward the two holding Geralt and, glaring, they let him go. Geralt dropped to his knees with a grunt, nearly spilling to the platform, but Jaskier swooped down to catch him. He linked an arm underneath Geralt’s shoulder and turned his head, leaning in close.

“Roach, Geralt. Where’s Roach?”

Geralt only mumbled something unintelligible. Jaskier glared up at the man in silks.

“Where is his fucking horse?”

The man startled at his sudden change in tone. Suddenly, Jaskier wondered if that’s why Geralt was always so grumpy. Apparently, words like that did wonders. 

“We released the animal outside the gates,” the man said quickly. “But the beast wouldn’t leave.”

Of course, Roach wouldn’t. The horse was like a trained dog with her loyalty. Jaskier took a breath and did his best to lift Geralt off the ground, relief coursing through him with Geralt managed to help a little. Jaskier started past the man, but hesitated at the last second, turning to shoot him a dark look.

“Next time, I set this town on fire. So hot, no one will ever find your bones.”

The man’s face turned white. Jaskier turned back around.

The crowd parted, letting him pass through. It was a sea of people; some watching silently, some whispering to their partners, some shouting dark curses. Jaskier tried to keep his face stoic but he was terrified something would change at any moment. Someone would call his bluff or leap out of the crowd. Jaskier would be grabbed, dragged to the sidelines, and he’d be helpless to watch as Geralt was hung. Because someone had to know he’s a liar; someone had to see the coward hidden behind his fiery words and baseless threats.

But they made it to the edge of the crowd. Geralt finally got his feet under him and Jaskier felt a terrified tear trace down his cheek, out of sight of the rest of the crowd. His heart pounded against his chest so hard, he couldn’t believe no one else heard it.

“Jask,” Geralt said, words slurred. Jaskier shushed him and headed for the gates.

Roach was there. Perfect, loyal Roach, whinnying and trotting toward them the second Jaskier stumbled into sight. Jaskier whispered a quiet thanks to whatever gods were watching and put a hand on her neck, turning his face toward Geralt.

“Can you get on? Because I can’t lift you, Geralt, I’m barely keeping you up now.”

Geralt blinked a few times and Roach pushed her face into his neck. After a moment, face tight, Geralt wrapped a hand around the saddle and pulled himself up with a grunt. Jaskier thought he was going to go toppling off the other side for a moment, but Geralt managed to hold on tight, even as his head lolled again. Quickly, Jaskier pulled himself up behind the witcher and grabbed the reins.

“Get us out here,” Jaskier told Roach. “Any town but this one.”

Roach didn’t always listen to him, but she did this time. Jaskier was sorely tempted to snap the reins and have them move at full speed, but he didn’t want to jostle Geralt more than necessary. He couldn’t tell how badly wounded the witcher was, but Jaskier could feel blood staining his clothes from where the man was pressed against his chest. Jaskier couldn’t help but throw a glance over his shoulder. And he could’ve sobbed in relief when he saw no angry townspeople were chasing after them with torches or pitchforks.

“We’re alright,” Jaskier said quietly. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

Geralt muttered something unintelligible. Jaskier hoped it was in agreement. He swallowed hard and didn’t look back toward the town again.

Roach took them to the nearest inn outside of Oxenfurt.

**Author's Note:**

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